


This Is The Way The World Ends

by Irollforinitiative



Series: Theirs Is Not to Reason Why [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Guns, I promise, M/M, Minor Character Death, Psychological Torture, Torture, Violence, but don't worry, it will be happy again before the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft faces Moriarty and a choice where there is no right or wrong answer, but he still has to choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is The Way The World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of the angst part of this story. It's going to be very angsty for a while but PLEASE bear with me because I promise a happy ending.

_It was another two weeks before they became aware that something was wrong.  At dinner Mycroft looked at his phone, his face pale and drawn. “Greg, Anthea hasn’t checked in for the last 72 hours.”_

Greg frowned, confused. “But she’s undercover.  That’s not too terribly strange.  My boys have been M.I.A. for weeks when they’re just slightly under cover.  She’s deep under.”

 

Mycroft shook his head. “You do not understand.  She never does this.  She has never failed to check in. And…I have reason to believe he might desire to harm her.” Mycroft stood up and placed his hand across his mouth.  It was a gentle motion but Greg had come to recognize it as the expression of the same emotion he was dealing with as he scrubbed his hand across his eyes.

 

Greg stood up and followed Mycroft as he paced into the sitting room. “Mycroft, what do you mean?” his voice was calm and even.

 

“She is probably dead.” Mycroft’s voice was even but his eyes held the depth of his panic.

 

Greg nodded and pulled out his phone, getting ready to do anything he could. “Okay.  Talk.  Why would he kill her, aside from the normal psychopath reasons?”

 

Mycroft sighed through tight lips. “I killed his analogue of her.”

 

Greg frowned. “What?”

 

Mycroft sat down slowly and continued to stare at the wall as if it held the answers to everything. “His first in command, a man known as Sebastian Moran. I had him killed.  The man was a part of the pool incident as well as the Bart’s incident. He was the only one Sherlock was having trouble touching.  So it was requested that I step in and deal with him.  Two months ago I had him executed.”

 

“Oh…” Greg sat down and stared at Mycroft, unused to thinking much about him having the power to have another person killed.  “So he killed her…”

 

“And he is not going to be finished.  I can promise that.”

 

“How do you know? He won; he got his revenge.” Greg frowned and knitted his eyebrows deeply.

 

“Because of you.  And me.  And Sherlock.  And John.”

 

Greg reached out and set his hand gently on Mycroft’s knee.  “My darling, you’ve got to give me more details if I’m going to help.”

 

Mycroft nodded and drew himself up, his political mask settling in place to an extent Greg had not seen since their fourth date. “I understand.  We can go in order of offense.  You.  Do you remember your first case with Sherlock?” Greg shook his head, “I’ll refresh your memory.  There was a young girl who was killed by a man that she was in a relationship with.  Sherlock made the deduction that she was cheating and it was a crime of passion.  Once you didn’t find any leads on the boyfriend who seemingly never existed, you dropped it.  But Sherlock was wrong.”

 

Greg shook his head. “No! He was right.  It was all right there.  The details, the evidence.  She was cheating and was killed. We just never were able to get a positive I.D. on the man because he lived under an alias.  Something not entirely uncommon these days.”

 

Mycroft shook his head slowly. “No.  It was Moriarty.  He’s clever.  He laid the necessary clues and details so that even the height and weight of the killer would seem to be different than his own. That used to be a favorite hobby of his, dating multiple women simultaneously for a few weeks then killing them. But you got closer than anyone else had because you had Sherlock working with you.  And it stopped his ability to kill in that way.  He was forced to become creative.  For that, he has still not forgiven you.  You took away his favorite toy.”

 

“Shit.” Greg ran his hand over his eyes roughly.

 

“Then there is me. I captured him.  To be able to do so I had to treat him like a rat in a maze and block any pathway that wasn’t to where I desired him to be.  I’m clever.  It took him a long while to realize what I was doing.  But he realized it.  And he made it his goal to exact revenge.  After the Bond Air incident he thought he had his revenge. However, my reputation remains untarnished due to Sherlock’s cleverness.  Ergo, he still sees himself as owing me.”

 

“You don’t think—” Greg began, his face growingly pale.

 

“Let me finish.  His goal with Sherlock was to hurt him twofold.  He desired to ruin his reputation and kill him.  He failed on both accounts.  Sherlock is still alive and is currently hunting him and his entire organization down.  And he’s succeeding. What Moriarty attempted through the media, Sherlock is doing through covert operations.  He has killed most of Moriarty’s men and permanently sullied Moriarty’s reputation with the rest.”

 

“But Sherlock’s reputation is completely thrashed.” Greg’s voice was desperate.

 

Mycroft smiled softly. “Not in John’s eyes.  And Sherlock couldn’t care less about what others think.  He has made that abundantly clear in the past.  The only person he truly cares about is John and, to a lesser extent, you and Mrs. Hudson.  None of you think less of him. If anything, John now holds Sherlock in a higher esteem following his alleged death.”

 

Greg nodded. “He’s all John ever talks about.  It hurts to not tell him.”

 

“You know we cannot.” Mycroft looked away again. “And the events that are about to transpire are why.  If John knew Sherlock was still alive and fighting, he would be fighting for Sherlock’s reputation even harder.  It would make him a target.  As it is, I believe that I am his only target. And that, my dear, makes things very simple.”

 

Greg frowned and sat back a little, confused and startled. “It does? How?”

 

Mycroft looked up at Greg and reached out to take his hands gently.  He smiled softly and sighed a little. “You must stay away from me.”

 

“No! What?! Never!” Greg’s grip on Mycroft’s hands became crushing.

 

Mycroft only calmly shook his head. “You must. Moriarty wants to hurt me.  If you leave and we behave as though we have parted ways then you will cease to be a target.  Hehas already taken Anthea. We can only pray now that he will keep her alive.  But as it stands, she is bait.  And I am the prey.  I will spring his trap but he is not a fool.  If he believes that we remain together, he will come after you.  I cannot have that.”

 

“I’m not going to break up with you for some madman!”

 

“Gregory, please.” Mycroft had not called Greg by his full name when it had been just the two of them since he had first admitted his love. It felt strange on his tongue when not under the gaze of others. “It is not permanent.  Not at all. I cannot live without you.  Therefore, if I wish to have you on a long term basis, I will be forced to live without you for a short while.”

 

Greg’s hands relaxed and he nodded. “I know we haven’t had this discussion before, but I…I’ve just come to think that I won’t ever have to be without you.” His cheeks colored.

 

Mycroft smiled and lifted Greg’s hands, kissing them each softly. “As have I.  Please.  It will be a month at most. I cannot face a life without you, and this is my only way of protecting you.”

 

Greg nodded and bit the inside of his lip to tamp down the emotions that choked this throat. 

 

That night he moved out and in with John.  He took the sofa since Sherlock’s room was still preserved like a shrine. John had smiled softly and handed him a beer before asking if he’d been keeping up with rugby. It was the most miserable night Greg had survived since he’d first asked Mycroft out.

 

Mycroft hadn’t slept at all.  After one final, desperate kiss in the bedroom where there were no cameras, they sadly and calmly gathered Greg’s things and he left.  It was not a show, it was not theatrics. It was real.  Painfully real.  They had behaved as if things had just ended. And, while they had not, Mycroft felt entirely alone for the first time in a very long while.  But it was necessary.  With a resolute head nod and a lifting of his chin, Mycroft set about tracking where Anthea had last been.  He needed to find where Moriarty was sure to lay a trap so that he might spring it. The sooner he could do so and, hopefully, survive the incident, the sooner he could return to Greg’s arms.

 

It took three weeks.  Three weeks alone.  Three weeks where sleep was an illusive muse that danced out of his grip every time he thought he’d caught her.  Three weeks of heartache.  This was the reality for both Greg and Mycroft for those three weeks.  Entirely alone, they still existed as one entity, working towards the same goal.  However, Mycroft did not know that Greg was doing this.  He did not know that Greg had found the warehouse Anthea had been taken from.  Did not know he was quietly assembling civilian clothes teams so that he might be able to be there.  Did not know Greg was doing everything in his power to protect Mycroft.  So when that day came, after over three weeks apart, Mycroft truly did believe himself to be alone. 

 

As Mycroft stepped into the empty building, he realized the folly of his believing that.  There were footprints in the dust.  Boots.  It could have been one of Moriaty’s men, but the likelihood of one of his trained snipers being foolish enough to leave tracks was extremely low.  That left but one option, John.  Mycroft increased his pace and dearly hoped his people would stick to the plan and take out Morarty’s snipers slowly. As he stepped into the dusty room that used to serve as storage space, he saw the doctor.  John turned and frowned when he heard Mycroft approaching.

 

“Mycroft? What are you doing here?” John’s whole body was tense.

 

“I could ask you the same.” Mycroft continued forward until he was even with John.

 

“I…I got a call.  Said to come here at this time if I wanted… actually it’s not important.” John blushed and cut himself off.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “If you wanted information about the whereabouts of a certain consulting detective you were to be here at this exact moment?”

 

John’s face fell. “How did you…”

 

“Moriarty.  And it takes little logic to realize what could drive you to do something so stupid as to come to a remote location, and to do so unarmed.”

 

“The note said to.” John pressed a hand to the small of his back where he usually tucked the gun he had; the gun currently in a drawer at Baker St.

 

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, because listening to psychopaths is usually wise.”

 

“Sod off.  What are you doing here anyway? Aside from looking creepy, as usual.  Did Moriarty contact you too?”

 

“Yes.  But in a very different way. He took Anthea.” Mycroft’s voce became soft.

 

John’s eyebrows knit together in worry. Before he could open his mouth to reply, the door on the far side of the room burst open. 

 

“I do believe that’s my cue to enter,” Moriarty’s voice sung out as he jauntily strode into the room, one hand in his pocket and the other clutching an FN Herstal 5.7.

 

John grew pale and his hands shook. “Where is he!?”

 

Moriarty made a comically shocked face at Mycroft. “My, my, Mycroft, looks like the good doctor is a bit snippy today. You’re not, though.”

 

Mycroft laid his hand on John’s shoulder to calm him and sighed. “No.  Because I know the game.”

 

“That’s what you think.” Moriarty bit his lip and bounced on the balls of his feet as something fell from the rafters to the ground between them.  Mycroft and John both stepped back in shock as the dark form landed with a dull thud.  Mycroft stayed John with a wave of his hand and moved forward slowly.  As he neared the object, he realized it was something wrapped up in a black canvas sheet.  He reached down cautiously and pulled the sheet aside.  Through his well practiced and strictly controlled political mask, a gasp slipped out as Mycroft looked down in abject horror at the disfigured face of Anthea.  He fought down a retch and backed up quickly, his pulse pounding.  He had prepared himself for this, for her being dead.  But seeing it was an entirely different matter.  John didn’t understand and was staring at Mycroft. 

 

“It’s…it’s Anthea.” Mycroft swallowed thickly, his voice breaking. 

 

John covered his mouth with his hand as he gasped. “Shit. Is she…”

 

“Dead?” Moriarty cut in, still grinning and chomping on gum. “Oh, very.  And freshly so too. Just in case you needed a visual reminder of how deadly serious I am.”

 

Mycroft grimaced as he noticed the red pool forming around Anthea’s body.  “I do not doubt it.”

 

 

“You messed everything up, Mycroft.  Every time I thought it was Sherlock, it was really you.  The man behind the curtain:  helping your baby brother’s first investigation.  Helping him to thrive.  Helping him to live. I could have forgiven that.  But then you killed my favorite toy.  And now I’M MAD!” he shouted and his face contorted in rage.

 

Mycroft had schooled his face back to impartial and it remained so even as Moriarty shouted. “If you’re so mad at me, then why is he here?” he waved at John.

 

Moriarty’s face slowly turned into a wide grin. “Because I like an audience.  Bring ‘em out boys!”  Moriarty held up his arms and as he did so two bodies were shoved out of the same door Moriarty had come through.  These two were alive, though. Their faces were covered by black hoods and their hands were bound but they remained on their feet.  Moriarty backed up until he could grab them and lead them both by the elbow before stopping when they were just past Anthea’s body. “On your knees, please.”

 

The two men (Mycrofy had identified that they were clearly men due to their proportions, height, and the fact that they were both in non-descript men’s clothing) fell to their knees. Moriarty grinned and pulled away the black hoods one at a time.  As the first hood slid off Mycroft felt his stomach drop. It was Sherlock, glaring up at Moriarty. 

 

John gasped, his eyes wide. “Sherlock!”

 

“Yes, John. I’m fine.” Sherlock didn’t look away from Moriarty who was smiling down at him almost affectionately.

 

“But…you…” he swayed and sat down on the ground, pressing his forehead into his knees to stave off the faint that was threatening him.

 

“It was faked.”

 

Mycroft took advantage of John’s shock to get a word in. “Are you okay?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but continued to watch Moriarty. “Ah, my dear brother, always worrying.  How sickeningly saccharine.  I’m fine.”

 

Moriarty smiled at the worry on Mycroft’s face. “If you like that surprise, then you’ll love this.”

 

As the second hood was removed Mycroft fell to his knees, losing full control over his emotions. It was Greg.  Greg’s eyes did not find Moriarty.  Instead they were locked on Mycroft.

 

When Mycroft spoke it was barely a whisper. “No.”

 

Greg’s eyes were moist and his voice shook as he spoke. “I’m so sorry, love. I had to.”

 

Mycroft shook his head and his chin trembled. “No.”

 

“I’m sorry but you’ve got to stop.  Stand up, Mycroft.  Don’t let him do this to you.” Greg’s voice still shook but Mycroft nodded obediently.

 

Moriarty grinned, his eyes flat as he watched Mycroft compose himself and stand up, the pain and fear never truly leaving his face. “Oh yes.  Your little display almost fooled me. No theatrics.  So simple.  It seemed real. But then little Greggy here ruined it by showing up with the cavalry to save his lover boy. ‘Course that just made this much more fun.  You broke my favorite toy.  I broke one of yours. And I’m going to break another.  But not your favorite.”

 

Mycroft frowned and shook his head, his eyes flashing from Greg to Sherlock. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

 

“I mean you get to choose which is your favorite.  Then I kill the other.”

 

“No.” Mycroft ignored the choked groan he heard from John and tried to appear much more calm than he actually was. 

 

Moriarty shook his head and a small red dot appeared on both Sherlock and Greg’s foreheads. He moved so he was standing just slightly behind both men.  “That’s not an option.  See here’s the game.  I’m going to shoot your second favorite in the chest. You’ve got a doctor. Might even get an ambulance here in time to save them. Probably won’t, but there’s a chance. But if you refuse to choose before I count to five, both will be shot in the head.  And I promise neither will survive.  Understood?  All you have to do is tell me who you want to live. ”

 

Mycroft tensed his body and held his resolve. “My people are here too, Moriarty.  It’s not as simple as you think.”

 

“One.”

 

Mycroft started to sweat. “Don’t be dumb, you can’t win this. You know you can’t.”

 

“Two.”

 

Mycroft pulled the handgun out from the small of his back that he had been hiding. “I’ll shoot you.  I won’t miss.”

 

“Three.”

 

Mycroft began to panic and the hand that held the gun began to shake. “Stop it! Just stop it! Please!”

 

“Four.”

 

Tears leaked out on Mycroft’s cheeks as he bellowed, his eyes flashing from Greg to Sherlock and back. “I’ll give you anything you want. I'll give you Moran. We're still holding him. I had my people lie to you. Please!”

 

“Five”

 

Mycroft didn’t think. He didn’t process.  Instead he stopped.  Stopped everything.  For once in his life, Mycroft Holmes allowed the fear and instinct to take over.  He allowed his hind brain to respond because he was incapable of doing it.  He was beaten.  Without his permission his mouth opened and his voice shouted a name raggedly. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from T.S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men"
> 
> "This is the way the world ends  
> This is the way the world ends  
> This is the way the world ends  
> Not with a bang but a whimper."


End file.
